Ello

When I was a little boy my mother used to dress me up
in ideas, concepts and emotions.
She gave me a porcelain doll to play with
representing my life.
I gave it lots of names so far,
none so matching as yours.

I named my doll after you that night,
when I made her sat on that chair that I dragged
with a magical strength towards me,
as if my hand had a will of its own.
And that night I replaced my doll with you.

Your so eager to praise your cleverness mentality
will definitely throw excuses like:
I am not a doll, I am not That doll,
I don’t want to be a doll that had other names
and so on…

You will stay at those excuses and live with them
in a house crowded with cats, as you ever planned.
And you will have missed my hand
constantly dragging your life towards me,
not by accident or fate,
but by great, stable struggle
day by day.

Why does my hand never get tired? Why can’t it just let that chair-shaped life go?